


I Get A Kick Out Of You

by Kirito_Potter



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Football | Soccer, Getting Together, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Vampires, Watford (Simon Snow)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 06:10:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirito_Potter/pseuds/Kirito_Potter
Summary: I only see him when I peek past the first row of lockers, hiding behind it just in case. Baz is the only one left. He's facing me, and for a moment I think I'm done for, but his eyes are closed. He's reaching up to wipe at his forehead with the back of his hand, then wiping that on his uniform. Apparently not satisfied, he reaches for the hem of his jersey and lifts it to dab at his face.I'm not sure what hits me, but all of a sudden I'm frozen. A triangular section of his stomach is bare now, brightly flushed-- he can't blush much, but he's really red right now, probably a combination of exertion and how hot it was outside. His abs ripple as he rubs the cloth over his forehead, and I find myself watching in a sort of uncontrollable fascination. He's all shiny with sweat, making every angle even more defined and sharp. I can't look away.





	I Get A Kick Out Of You

**SIMON**

  
  


I finally have proof. Real, definitive proof.

 

Or it was a trick of the light.

 

But I think I saw it. Of course, now I can't brag to Penny, because she refused to come to the game with me. She insisted it was a waste of time, but today-- today I saw it!

 

It was just a moment. Baz was standing on the pitch, knees slightly bent, licking his lips in that annoying way of his. One of his teammates passed him the ball, and he grinned devilishly. Then one of the blokes on the other team kicked it out of his way at the last second. I didn't see where it went, because in that moment, Baz's eyebrows pulled down, and his lips curled in a snarl-- and there! For a split second, his canines glinted, stretching monstrously to fill his mouth. I gaped, leaning forward. And just as quickly, his eyes widened and he pressed his lips together, but his cheeks were still bulging for a second. I could tell when his fangs retracted.

 

Baz has fangs. I knew I'd see them eventually, if I kept a close enough watch. But now I'm not sure what to do with that information.

 

The game ended a while ago, and Baz is acting like everything is completely normal. He's still on the pitch, and he's kicking around the football. He does this after every game, makes a whole show out of it. Sometimes one or two other players stay out with him, and they toss the ball back and forth, dancing around each other in a way that seems nearly rehearsed. Today, though, he's on his own, bouncing the ball on his calf, his thigh, his foot, in a hypnotising rhythm. He reaches up to adjust his little ponytail, never slowing down or losing the ball.

 

The opposing team starts to file out of the changing room, waving at him. He smirks, waving back even as he kicks the ball back and forth. The other team looks properly wiped, which makes sense. The pitch is the only part of the campus not drenched in protections spells, which is why we can have Normal teams over, but just being so close to the school is uncomfortable for them. The teams usually complain about how hot and itchy it is here. These blokes-- I've already forgotten their team name; some kind of bird, I think-- look up at the sun as they leave, cupping their hands over their eyes to gape up at it as if to ask it why it's so much hotter at Watford than anywhere else. It's not the sun's fault at all, but they don't know that. (There's a rule against openly using magic at games, too.) (At least one person usually breaks it.)

 

The other Watford players start filing out, too, and Baz still hasn't let up on this bloody ball. Most of the spectators have gone, but I need to stay and do  _ something _ . I saw his fangs!

 

I consider just walking down from the bleachers and asking him, but I'd get the same response I always do. He'll deny his vampirism as long as he can. Better to wait him out. I'll follow him into the changing room, where his guard will be down, and corner him. Force him to show me his fangs up close. (I could just kill him while his back is turned, but that'd sort of be a win for him. I want him to admit it-- admit that I was right.)

 

He plays with the football a bit longer, then finally stops to catch his breath and puts up the ball. He slinks towards the changing room without another look back.

 

Satisfied that his little performance is over, the rest of the students still sitting in the bleachers start to leave, chattering quietly. I go against the flow of people, sneaking closer to the door Baz disappeared through. No one stops me, so I lean against it, pushing slightly. The door opens a crack, and I poke my head through.

 

I've been in the changing room a few times, having played a couple of matches, but never after a real game, and not since a few years ago. It looks mostly the same, other than new decoration on certain lockers and a discarded pair of pants forgotten on one of the benches.

 

I open the door a bit more.

 

Yuck. The smell is the same, too.

 

Stepping inside, I glance around, checking for Baz. The point was to ambush him, so it'd be a shame if he popped out of the shadows like a daemon and scared me.

 

I only see him when I peek past the first row of lockers, hiding behind it just in case. Baz is the only one left. He's facing me, and for a moment I think I'm done for, but his eyes are closed. He's reaching up to wipe at his forehead with the back of his hand, then wiping that on his uniform. Apparently not satisfied, he reaches for the hem of his jersey and lifts it to dab at his face.

 

I'm not sure what hits me, but all of a sudden I'm frozen. A triangular section of his stomach is bare now, brightly flushed-- he can't blush much, but he's really red right now, probably a combination of exertion and how hot it was outside. His abs ripple as he rubs the cloth over his forehead, and I find myself watching in a sort of uncontrollable fascination. He's all shiny with sweat, making every angle even more defined and sharp. I can't look away.

 

When he lowers his shirt again, he shakes his head, and his ponytail bounces, sending sweat flying through the air in shimmering droplets. Panting, he reaches up and pushes his hair back. He opens his eyes.

 

And gasps.

 

"Shit," I mumble, remembering that this is real, not a slow motion advert for some shampoo I can't afford.

 

"Snow?" He asks, eyes wide, and I know he was red before, but was he this red? "What the hell are you doing?"

 

I swallow and step out from the refuge of the lockers.  _ You're a vampire. _ The words won't leave my mouth.

 

"Well?"

 

I feel strange. Like my head is stuffed full of cotton-- sweat-scented cotton.

 

He shakes his head. "You can't be in here, Snow." His eyebrows pull together. "Sneaking into locker rooms? What are you, a pervert?"

 

It's a punch to the gut. My face is warm, and I shake my head, but it feels slow. Everything feels slow. "N… no…" But I sort of am. Wasn't I just watching him with his shirt off? "I was just…"

 

He huffs. "You're not supposed to be here, Snow."

 

"But you're…"  _ a vampire. You're a vampire! _

 

"Go," he hisses. "Haven't you followed me around enough? This is crossing the line. Leave me alone, you wanker."

 

But my legs won't move to take me out of the room. My body won't listen to anything I ask, and I don't know why. I can't even speak.

 

_ You're a vampire. You're a vampire. You're-- _

 

"You're fit."

 

What? Why did I say that?

 

He looks at me strangely, and I can't make out his expression. "You… think I'm fit?"

 

Merlin, my face is on fire. "I-- uh-- you took your shirt off, and, uh--"  _ Stop talking, you're making it worse! _ "Your muscles are-- they're very-- uh--"  _ Stop it, stop! _

 

"Snow," Baz starts, shoulders tense, "I…"

 

I've never seen Baz speechless before.

 

As if this isn't embarrassing enough, I start walking closer. I can't make myself leave and I can't say the thing I came here to say, but my body is happy to do what it likes without asking me. I'm just here for the ride.

 

"Snow?" Baz asks again. He can't say anything else.

 

I don't stop walking until I'm standing only a few feet away from him, by which point he's worrying his bottom lip.

 

"Baz," I mumble. "I think…" Neither of us knows what I'll say next. It's Russian roulette. "I think you're quite pretty."

 

His eyebrows jump up into his hairline. "You-- what--" His voice has gone up several octaves.

 

_ That's not what I meant, _ I want to say.  _ I don't know why I said that!  _ Instead, I say, "You should put your hair up more often."

 

He swallows hard. "I… um…"

 

I take another step, but he doesn't stop me. Another. He watches silently. And now I'm close enough to…

 

I reach out and brush some hair behind his ear. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he leaned into the touch.

 

I press the hand to his cheek. There's no reason to, but I do it anyway. His chest heaves with each breath, even though it's been several minutes now since he got off the pitch. I lean closer.

 

"Simon?"

 

I press my mouth to his, and the sigh that leaves him is almost too quiet to hear. His lips are soft, soft, soft, plush against mine, inviting and careful and a little cold but also warm in a strange way. His hand is at my waist now, but I don't know how it got there. I clutch his cheek, pawing at it with no real aim or purpose. He smells like sweat, acrid and kind of gross, but also like  _ Baz,  _ to the point that I kind of don't mind.

 

The hand not on his cheek finds its way to the back of his neck, and then I'm playing with his ponytail, tugging a little as I move my jaw up and down. He squeezes my waist, and suddenly it's different somehow. I'm pressing harder, shutting my eyes tighter, and it feels sort of like fighting. My heart is pounding as adrenaline floods my veins, and the room feels electric. This kind of reminds me of how it gets when he's about to punch me, only instead he's tilting his head to the side and pulling me closer.

 

I still don't know what I'm doing, but my hand slides down his cheek, down his chest, down his stomach. I grip the hem of his jersey and pull up.

 

When I reach his face, we have to pull apart. I open my eyes, and for a second I panic. I kissed Baz. I'm taking his clothes off. But he doesn't look mad. His pupils are blown wide, and he licks his lips the same way he did when he was getting passed the ball. My knees shake a bit as I slip the jersey over his head.

 

He leans forward to keep snogging me, but I reach out to stop him. My hands land on his chest, and a shudder runs down my spine. He really is fit. I drink him in for a moment, even more glorious up close like this. His abs look like they've been sculpted to perfection-- like a Greek god. His nipples are dusty pink, and I can't stop myself from rubbing the left one. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, and when I look up his face is red again. I roll his nipple between my fingers, and he squeezes his eyes shut, head tipping back a bit. I kiss his bare neck, and he gasps.

 

I pull his head down, snogging him with a new sense of urgency. I let go of his nipple, running my hand up and down his stomach absently as I work my jaw. (The way my hand slides up and down the ridges of his abs makes my fingers tingle.) He reaches around me and digs his fingers into my hair, pulling me even closer, and the pressure there feels nice.

 

The hand on my waist slips down, and then he's grabbing my arse, pushing our hips together--

 

Oh, fuck. I hadn't realised I was hard, but now my cock is pressed against his thigh. I'm scared he'll push me away for a moment, but then he smiles against my mouth and grinds forward. The added friction is enough to make me moan, and he takes advantage of my parted lips to push his tongue past. I've never had someone's tongue in my mouth, and it's not something I particularly like, but I don't hate it, either.

 

He pushes his hips forward again, and this time I feel the beginnings of his own hard on. All at once, he pulls back, clapping a hand over his mouth, and my heart sinks. He hates me. He thinks I'm disgusting. He--

 

He's trying to cover his fangs. I can see them pushing at his cheeks, and his eyes are wide as he watches for my reaction.

 

This is what I came here for, isn't it? I got distracted, but this is what I wanted-- for him to show me his fangs. For him to admit what he is. But now that it's happening…

 

I reach up and curl my hand over his, lacing our fingers. He seems to understand, eyebrows pulling up.

 

"It's alright," I mumble, voice raspy. "It's okay."

 

He lets me pull his hand away, and I drop our clasped hands by our sides. I lean to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It's not as intense as before, because I don't think it should be right now. It's only when he angles his head so he can kiss back that the heady feeling returns, making me feel both like I'm floating and like I'm being pinned to the ground with force.

 

His fangs are kind of scary, but I can tell he's being careful. (Horny, but careful.) He's not letting me push my tongue into his mouth this time, and he doesn't move his head too quickly. He does start to grind against me again, though, and now that we're both hard it's somehow even hotter. I can't help the little grunts and gasps he's wrenching out of me, but he's just as lost in it, whining against my lips on each thrust or sinful gyration. It's one thing to wank, but hearing another bloke be just as turned on is sort of mind-meltingly brilliant.

 

(That's well gay, isn't it?)

 

I tighten my grip on his hand, and he groans into my mouth. His other hand is on my waist again, insistent. He's starting to ruck up my shirt, just from how much our hips are moving and the slight obstruction his fingers provide. They dance on my skin, a new distraction in this already overwhelming moment, cold against me despite how sweaty he is. He traces circles of ice into my side, and I can't decide what to focus on when he's also squeezing my hand over and over.

 

His body is shaking now, and the small noises he's making are becoming more and more desperate. His lips fall open, and he has to duck his head to keep his fangs out of the way. I open my eyes to look just as he pushes his hand down from my waist and into my trousers. I moan, biting my lip as he palms me through my pants. His movements are clumsy and uncoordinated, which is so unlike Baz it's hot. He whines, pressing his head to my chest, and fumbles with my cock. I grip his shoulder for support, trying not to come then and there.

 

Even as he's pressing his palm on my cock in a way that feels so good it should be illegal, he's still holding my hand-- and somehow, that part seems more impossible.

 

I reach back and tug on his ponytail, pulling him up to meet my eyes. His mouth is still dropped open in an "o" and his eyelashes flutter as he grinds against my thigh. Almost without thinking, I lean down and wrap my lips around his Adam's apple. He gasps, hand twitching on my cock, and I realise how badly I want to hear every little noise he can make for me.

 

When I push him against the lockers, he yelps, flushing. I grin against his throat, nudging him backwards even harder until his back is fully pressed against the cold metal. He squirms, making a noise above me that sounds like a complaint, but the twitch of his hips against my leg tells a different story.

 

I trail my lips up his neck, across his jaw, and every touch makes him whine like it's too much, or maybe like it's not enough. I'm drinking in his breathy moans, silently begging for another whimper, shaking from his quiet keens. I've never felt this way about someone-- like everything they do is worth worshipping.

 

(I still have no idea what we're doing right now.)

 

(I don't mind, though.)

 

I pull his earlobe between my teeth, and he shudders, groaning in a way that leaves me breathless. But then he surprises me by speaking for the first time since whatever this is started.

 

"Simon…" His voice is soft and hesitant, but also sort of muffled by his fangs. "Can I… touch you?"

 

"You are," I mumble against his ear. I thrust against his palm as a reminder, and he laughs a little. His laugh is like bells. I want to hear it again.

 

"I mean, for real." He tilts his head towards me, and his pupils are so big I can hardly see the stormy grey there. "In your pants?"

 

I nod, wide-eyed. "Yes. That's-- yes."

 

He smiles a bit then, and I almost forget what we've been doing, how eager and erotic this is, because he looks like an angel.

 

His fingers are cold on my cock, but I don't fucking care because "Merlin!" it feels incredible. His strokes are still a little clumsy, but it's obvious he's trying his best. I've never had someone else's hand on me; it's different but the same and good. Really, really good. And all the while, he's still frantically grinding against my hip. My lips are pressed to his again, and I don't know who kissed who this time but I don't care. He squeezes the head of my cock, and I see stars on the backs of my eyelids. Everything is happening so fast, it's all melting together, not a series of events but one messy second of bliss.

 

He flicks his fingers over the head of my cock, gathering a bit of precome and using it to lube his hand. I'm impressed, actually-- I wouldn't have had that kind of insight. But the resulting slide up and down the shaft is heavenly, and I can't be bothered to think about it too hard. Slowly, his strokes become less random and awkward, and he picks up speed, finding a careful sort of rhythm. He hums into my mouth, thumb rubbing the underside of my cock, and I have no idea how I haven't come yet.

 

It occurs to me that maybe this is significantly better than just humping someone's leg.

 

"Baz?" I ask against his lips. "Should I…" I frown. That's not right. It's not a  _ should,  _ it's just something I'd like to do for him. "Can I try, too?"

 

He seems surprised, but excited. His cock twitches against my leg, and he pulls back to nod. (So his fangs won't catch on my lip.) "I… of course. Please." I don't think I've ever heard Baz say please for something, and it's beautiful.

 

Even though I just asked, I hesitate to lower my hand from his hair and reciprocate. I've wanked before, of course, but I never considered I'd be holding another bloke's cock. I'm weirdly not too bothered by it, more caught off guard than upset. And Baz is pretty into this too, which I definitely didn't expect. But my brain is too muddled by  _ current amazing handjob  _ and  _ about-to-happen handjob  _ that I decide to wait until later to ask him.

 

I slide my hand down his neck, sucking lightly at his earlobe again. I try to keep my touches light and teasing, but I don't know if that's really coming across. My hand ghosts over his right nipple this time, and I lean down to lick it. He whines, and I pause in my descent to focus there a few seconds longer, just to hear more of those sounds. When I'm satisfied, I push my hand down his abs one more time, still slippery with sweat, and finally tug at the waistband of his uniform bottoms.

 

My hand shakes a little as I press into his pants. I'm sort of surprised to find that he's clean shaven, though I'm not sure why that's surprising. Everything about him is always so put-together that it seems obvious-- well, everything about him is  _ normally  _ put-together, I'm reminded by his whimper of anticipation. I squeeze his hand--  _ I'm still holding his hand _ \-- and gently wrap my fingers around his length.

 

The sound he makes sounds more like a sob than a moan. He bucks into my hand, and for a moment I'm frozen, overwhelmed. Our arms are all tangled up as we try to get a good grip, and I still don't have a plan other than giving him a handjob. But he acts like I'm not just standing there, dumbfounded. He presses his face against my collarbone, whining, and his fingers twitch on my cock, like I'm making him feel good somehow even though I know I'm not. Either he's sensitive, or… or it's something about me. That regardless of skill, knowing it's me is turning him on. That thought is a little too much to handle, though, so I try to focus on his stuttering strokes.

 

I start to move my hand as well, trying to copy him. He moans, low and deep in his chest. I don't know what to do with my face now that we're not snogging, so I lay my head on his bare shoulder and breathe him in. He smells fruity and rich; it does something to my stomach I can't explain. It's stronger now than it is normally, because he's sweaty and shirtless. I quite like it.

 

"Simon," he groans. It takes me a moment to realise he's not really talking to me-- just calling out, saying my name without any purpose. (All of this feels like that. Without purpose, but still like something that was supposed to happen.)

 

I kiss his shoulder absentmindedly as I work my fingers down his shaft. His cock jumps in my hand, and I'm not sure if it's from the kiss or the fingers. I try to catch some precome, like he did, but my hands aren't as graceful as his, and I'm just making a mess. He doesn't seem to mind, just presses his cold nose into the dip of my collarbone through my shirt.

 

I squeeze at the base of his cock, trying to find what he likes best. He groans softly, hips twitching again, and I keep going, rubbing my fingers there and tightening my grip every now and then. It's sort of gratifying to know I'm making him feel good, hearing his breath hitch and feeling his hips shake as he loses control. It's nearly as good as the actual hand on my own cock. (Nearly.)

 

His fingertips flutter over the slit at my head again, picking up more precome, and I groan into his shoulder, squeezing a little harder. We're both out of breath, scrambling for purchase, and it's oddly intimate. I could do this forever.

 

I drag my fingers up and down his cock a few times, copying the way he pressed his thumb to the bottom of mine, and he keens into my chest, body quivering against mine.

 

My shirt is sticking to my body, and I'm not sure if it's from his sweat or mine, but probably both, because we're practically glued together. Normally, I'd be a little disgusted, but right now it's ridiculously hot.

 

I can feel myself getting dangerously close, and judging by the tiny puffs of air against my shirt and the way his cock is drooling all over my fingers, he is too.

 

"Baz," I groan. "I think…"

 

He nods wildly against my chest, squeezing my hand. I don't think he can even say it.

 

Without warning, he lifts his head and slams his lips back into mine like his life depends on it. I close my eyes and work my jaw up and down. He moans and tilts his head, pressing hard against my mouth.

 

His cock jerks in my hand, come spilling over my fingers in hot trails. He lets out a punched-out moan. His whole body seems to shake, and he can't even kiss me. I stroke him through it, trying to be gentle. When he finishes, he sighs shakily, leaning against me, and goes right back to playing with my cock.

 

I come only a few strokes later, and he kisses me as I fall apart. I feel like I've been wrung out, but in a good way somehow.

 

A few moments pass, and we're still kissing, but slower now, coming down from the high of orgasm. I slide my hand out of his pants and press it to his back, pulling him closer. His skin is lukewarm against my burning hot hand. He pulls his hand free too and cups my cheek. I ignore the fact that he's smearing my own come on my face.

 

When we can both breathe again, our lips part. I'm not sure what to say, so I don't say anything at first. I press my forehead to his for a moment, then lean back and pull him down to sit on a bench. Our knees bump against each other, and for some reason I blush.

 

Baz is the first to speak. "Simon… I like you."

 

"What?" I splitter, the odd haze suddenly leaving me as I lift my head.

 

He rolls his eyes. "Of course that's what surprises you."

 

I swallow thickly. "I just…" I shrug weakly.

 

He smiles faintly. His fangs are gone now. (I think it was linked to his hard-on.) "I've liked you for years. I didn't think I had a chance with you."

 

"Neither did I," I admit. "Had no idea I liked blokes… but I guess I do, because I sort of just gave you a handjob, and that's pretty gay."

 

He laughs, and it's still the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. "Yeah, I'd classify that as pretty gay."

 

I bite my lip, glancing down at where our hands are joined. They're sweaty, but I don't want to let go. The fact that I'm holding a bloke's hand is still blowing my mind.

 

"Well," I offer, "I'd also think that… watching you play football feels pretty gay." I feel my cheeks heating. "Seeing you all sweaty… and you really are fit." I realise something else. "I like your legs, too. They're football legs."

 

He giggles. I've never seen Baz this happy. "Yeah?"

 

I nod. "I guess I like muscles."

 

His eyes are shining. "Well… I like curly hair. And moles. And broad shoulders."

 

I can't help but grin. "Yeah?"

 

He licks his lips. "Yeah. So we're both pretty gay."

 

"Sounds like it," I laugh.

 

When he kisses me again, it feels like a celebration.


End file.
